


Pointy Hat-trick

by Quillstem



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gift Fic, M/M, Quidditch, Self-Esteem Issues, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillstem/pseuds/Quillstem
Summary: It's his final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and there are only two things Lance wants.One is small and golden, and the other is just as out of reach.





	Pointy Hat-trick

On the first day of his seventh year, Lance finally becomes the captain of his house quidditch team.  He also switches positions, from chaser to seeker.

He holds court.  The entire team and a very rowdy entourage crams itself cheering into the stuffy common room.  Someone along the fringe sets off a firecracker. The scent of black-powder and butterbeer cloys Lance’s senses.  His teammates slap him on the back, a little too hard.  After all these years wilting under a very long shadow it is finally Lance’s time to take center stage.

“About time,” they say.  He hears the unspoken words--and don’t even think about mucking this up.  If you do, maybe the shadows are where you belong after all.

The exuberant smile on Lance’s face slips.  He is the man of the hour, but if anybody at the celebration notices the pained look on his face they don’t care enough to mention it.  A chant begins and ripples along the crowd, “Capture the cup, capture the cup.  Seven in a row, seven in a row.”  A knot forms in Lance’s chest and tightens with every repetition.  He wishes, for the hundredth time, that his best friend had been sorted into his house.

It doesn’t seem fair that here, of all places--now, of all times--he feels so scared and alone.

Lance sinks into a squashy armchair, his elbows resting along the toprail.  He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, hoping that he looks cool, cocky, confident.

 

    **************************

 

Two weeks later he selects his squad for the first match, after a long and grueling set of tryouts.

Sitting on the pitch, he is still wearing his quidditch robes, and his hands worry at a small spiral-bound notebook.  A golf pencil is pinched between his nose and upper lip.  Lance loves the woody scent, as well as the curious looks that it inspires.  His brows are knitted in concentration, and his lips purse.

Lance ruffles his chestnut hair and twirls a short lock between his thumb and index finger.  It’s all written down there in his notes: three members of the team have never played an official match.  Both beaters and the new chaser, his replacement, are talented enough but lack real experience.

A snide voice in his head reminds him that the seeker is also woefully unprepared for his position.

He shakes his head in frustration and flops onto his back.  The turf is springy and still wet from the morning dew.  The pencil bounces off into the grass somewhere above his head.  His blue eyes cloud over as he recalls his first official game at Hogwarts.

_He made the team as a first year.  Not unheard of for his house, but still an accomplishment.  Lance dreamed of being seeker--they made him a chaser.  He remembered getting creamed in his first match._

_It was because of that tall seventh-year Hufflepuff captain with the somber eyes. All suicide dives and lightning reflexes.  It was because of way he held his own, shoulder-to-shoulder, against any opposing beater.  He was the seeker that led his house to a four year winning streak at the inter-house quidditch cup.  The longest ever for Hufflepuff, all the way back to the school’s founding._  Lance caught a peek at him just yesterday, in the first-floor corridor.

Not sure when exactly he dozed off, Lance stretches, arching his back.  The sun is at its zenith now, and both Lance and the air around him are pleasantly warm.  He sits up and scratches at an itch on the back of his neck.

Yes, that captain is now a professor; his first year teaching, and already very popular.

Lance regrets not taking Muggle Studies as an elective.  He blushes a bit.  He asked both his head of house and the headmistress if it was too late to switch in.  They told him in turn to dry up.

Lance closes his notebook and scrambles around until he finds his pencil.  He tucks it into the spiral binding, pockets his notes, and shuffles back to the castle with his broomstick over his shoulder.

 

    **************************

 

The sky clears up just as the sun sets--after the last grueling practice the night before Gryffindor’s first match of the year.  Just perfect, Lance thinks.

He puts on a brave face and faces his crew.  “Rest up, everyone.  Good job.”

The two older chasers shoot him mutinous glares and stalk off to the locker rooms.  Even Lance has to admit that he did a fair bit of backseat flying out there.  Roche, a fellow seventh year and close friend, pointedly wondered out loud mid-flight if it was against the rules to have four chasers and no seeker.

The youngest chaser looks almost as crushed Lance feels.  She stares at her captain and opens her mouth to say something, but shuts it with a click.  The girl runs off, her lip trembling.

The last two and a half hours were a disaster.  He should have called it off after thirty minutes: his team isn’t any better prepared, morale is ghastly, and he suspects his keeper is coming down with a sniffle.  Lance actually enjoys flying in the rain, but he knows this is not common.  The team didn’t want to, but it will definitely be pouring tomorrow.  The experience should pay off and give Gryffindor the edge.  If they can hold it together that long.

In the locker room, the new captain overhears more whinging from his chasers.

“Keith would have trusted us to go on about our own.  He would have focused on his own bloody job.  It’s a damn shame he’s gone and graduated before we could win the seventh.”

It’s true, the former captain of Gryffindor’s quidditch team never tried to tell anyone what to do.  He didn’t seem to care about anything, really, except the snitch.  Begrudgingly, Lance had to admit that Keith’s focus and drive were a force to be reckoned with.  They assured Keith’s place as a legend in their house, in the present, and into the future.

Lance is sure he could take a page out of his book.  Many, many pages.

 

    **************************

 

Muddy shoeprints trail behind Lance as he dejectedly drags his feet back to his dormitory.  He doesn’t even bother to change.  At this hour there are few students still out and about.  Still, the ones he runs into all take time to wish him good luck.  Even from the other houses.  Even, oddly, from one Slytherin.  The serpents will be taking the field opposite him tomorrow.

Lance sees her approaching, her nose deep in some crusty leather-bound tome.  Her back-length tangle of mousy hair is sticking out at all angles.  The wand in her dominant hand swishes back and forth in an irregular figure-eight.  She’s about to walk straight into one of the stone gargoyles that flank every corridor exit.

“Oi, Pidge,”  he calls out.  Pidge looks up and comes to an abrupt halt.  Her wand pauses, and an orange golf ball blinks into view just above the tip.  It falls onto the ground and bounces away loudly.

“Accio ball,” she calls.  She flicks her wand and the errant orb whizzes back toward her face.  Too late, Pidge realizes that her catching hand is still holding a heavy book.  “Oh, shit.”  Her eyes scrunch shut, but Lance snatches the ball out of the air right in front of her nose.  She can smell the lotion he uses to moisturize his hands.  Rain hasn’t managed to wash the scent of it off.

“An invisibility spell? Nice.” Lance ponders, eyebrow quirked.  While Pidge pockets her wand, he turns the ball over in the palm of his hand a few times.  It seems normal, although cold like a chip of ice.  He leans over and drops it directly into her robe pocket.  She starts, and glares at him balefully.  That’s almost enough to make him crack his million-watt grin.

“Hmm.  Not quite.  Unobservable?  Something like that.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Uh, it’s hard to explain.” A shrug.  “Thanks, by the way,” Pidge says. The fifth-year looks up at Lance and squints a little.  “Wow, you look terrible.”  Lance coughs out a weak chuckle.

“Yeah, just nerves, I guess.  You shouldn’t be using magic in the halls.”

Pidge shrugs.  “What the establishment doesn’t know won’t hurt it.  Anyway, I’m sure you’ll do fine.  Aren’t you some kinda quad-dash ace?”

“Quidditch.”

“Whatever.” She shrugs.  Pidge is a serial shrugger.  “Half my house’s already given up anyway.  They’re convinced you lot are taking performance-enhancing potions.  It’ll be a cinch.”  Lance turns a little green at the dismissive remark.  She notices that and softens her tone.  “Well, I’ll be cheering you on, if that means anything.”

It does.  “Thanks Pidge, appreciate it.”

“Won’t be going to watch, though.”

That gets a laugh out of him.  “I know.”

“I hate going outside.”

“I know, I know.”

They part ways.  Lance’s mood crashes again by the time he reaches the painting of the Fat Lady.  He can’t even find it in him to flirt with her like he always does.

“Lance, whatever is the matter?”  She radiates motherly concern.

“It’s nothing, Miss.   _Dipthong_.”  Her framed portrait swings open, and he slouches glumly into the common room.

 

    **************************

 

Lance can’t sleep, so he sneaks out of the dormitories just as the clocks toll midnight.  In a daze, his feet lead him to the training grounds.  First years come here to practice broom handling.  First flight is a fond memory of his, perhaps that’s why he came here.  The boggy grass sucks and squelches under his trainers.  It isn’t raining again yet, but patches of clouds are rolling in from the West.  Soon, the beautiful stars above him will be hidden.

Tomorrow, he will let all his housemates down.  To him, nothing could be worse.  Lance doesn’t really understand inter-house rivalry.  The fun of quidditch has always been in the camaraderie.  He doesn’t care too much about beating the other side--he wants to lift up his mates.  Lance loves relying on and being relied on.  But he can’t fly as seeker and direct the chasers at the same time.  He’d just be in the way.  And he still hasn’t been able to catch a practice snitch.  So, what purpose does the captain have on his own team?  He should have replaced himself a few weeks ago when he still had the chance.

He feels his eyes starting to sting, and he digs at them with his fists.

A cutting wind forces a shiver out of Lance.  The tear-traced lines down his cheeks go numb.  He’s wearing his heavier wool robes, but they aren’t enough to keep the chill at bay.  He pulls out his wand performs a complicated flourish with it before pointing it at his own chest.  A comforting heat radiates from the wand tip.

Above, close enough set the hairs on the back of his neck standing, something big wooshes past him.  The scent of riding leathers and sweet birch wafts across.  The warming charm weakens and fades.  And lance squints up at the night sky.

A rider is practicing at this hour.  Someone playing tomorrow?  Lance doubts it, no one on Slytherin’s side can fly like this.  It’s hard at first, but his eyes gradually grow accustomed to the flier’s movement.  The way the stars behind blink out for just an instant as they zip past.  It mesmerizes Lance.

He stands in awe, for a long time.  He’s not sure how long.  The mystery flier builds and kills speed like a surgeon.  Razor-sharp turns that flirt with death.  A single mistake could hurl the rider off the broom, into a four-hundred meter free fall.  Lance understands the method behind this madness; it’s nightmare for any pursuit.  Another cut, and an imaginary second flier chasing behind would shoot past just so, taking a much less ideal turning angle to keep the runner in sight. The loss of both three seconds and twenty odd feet-per-second puts this phenomenal _someone_ zooming back and forth across the night sky in a comfortable and widening lead.

Lance grins.  It reminds him of his own style.  It's stupid and reckless.  Radiates with joy, a pure and simple love of flying.  He doesn’t even notice his limbs going numb in the cold anymore.  He wants to be up there.  Now.

Then he notices the rider above takes a wide, looping turn.  They slow down, point their broom straight at Lance, and come in for a landing.  Lance starts, looking around himself.  He shouldn’t be visible in this darkness.

The rider touches down soundlessly.  He’s wearing leather riding boots and gloves, and a heavy wool cloak over his robes.  “Alright, Lance?”

“Hello, Professor Shirogane.”  Lance replies.  “How’d you see me from up there?”

The professor spends a few seconds wiping his fogged-up glasses against the front of his robes.  Must be even colder up there.  He puts them back on, and flashes a gentle smile at the student.  A light breeze plays at the tuft of white hair making up his bangs.

“This caught a bit of moonlight and glinted in the corner of my eye,” Shirogane explains, reaching out and fingering the silver clasp at the throat of Lance’s robes, only just peeking out from under a red and gold scarf.

Lance’s breath quickens from the sudden proximity.  His mouth quirks and he’s at a loss for something, anything, to say.

“That’s a pro seeker for you, I guess.  Former pro, I mean.  Uh.  Still good enough to be a pro, though, I’m sure.”  Great.  Of course he would put his foot in his mouth now of all times.

The professor laughs.  He doesn’t seem to have taken offense.  “Having trouble sleeping?  Pre-match nerves, I’m guessing. This is your first game as captain, after all.”  He rests his broomstick in the crook of his arm, and gestures to a set of stone benches along the edge of the field.  Shiro leads the way, and Lance follows.  They take a seat together.

“Er, yeah.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.  Slytherin and Gryffindor are tied for longest champion’s streak at six years apiece.  Makes sense that they’d be desperate to stop their arch-rivals from breaking that.”  The professor is sweating after his workout, and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt.  Baring his chest to the night and anybody who cares to sneak a peek.  He pulls his wand from the sleeves of his plain black robes, and conjures some pumpkin juice with a pair of simple pewter cups for the both of them to enjoy.

Lance takes a sip first, to calm his racing heartbeat, then replies.  “No, it’s not that.  See, I’m playing seeker this year--”

“Oh?  You’re quite the chaser, if I recall.”  Shiro notices his student grimacing.  “But I’m sure you’ll make a brilliant seeker as well.”

“I dunno about that, I think I’d be rubbish,”  Lance visibly deflates just thinking about it.  “I haven’t managed to catch a snitch at a half-dozen practices yet.  Can’t seem to get the knack of it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, with your sharp eyes.”

“Huh?

“Well, I’ve always thought that seekers need soft eyes, more than sharp eyes.”  The professor continues at the mystified expression on Lance’s face.  “See, it’s not like keeping after a quaffle or bludger.  You’re looking out for something that doesn’t want to be seen.  So you have to be scanning around with the assumption that your eyes will pass right over the snitch two, three, maybe four times.  Don’t panic, patience yields focus.  At the right moment, you’ll see a glimmer of gold, or those tiny fluttering wings.”

Lance considers this.  “Hmm, makes sense.”

“Once you’ve found the thing, I have every confidence that you’ll out-fly anyone at Hogwarts chasing it down,”  Shiro finishes.  Lance doesn’t reply to that, so they share a long, companionable silence.  Their breath appears as visible puffs of vapor.

After five minutes or so, Lance mentions, “I’ve tried out for seeker every year.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  But an upperclassman beat me every year.  He’s just always been amazing.  Like you.  That’s what my house expects from me now he’s gone, and there’s no way I can be that good.”  Lance sighs.  “I’ve always been second best, and now I’m just a bad replacement.”

“I think I remember.  Keegan?  Keith?”

“Yeah.”

“Decent, yes.  But I don’t recall that he was a particularly better rider over you.  Both of you make fine seekers.  I think you’ve got quite a complex, and it’s clouding your judgement.”

“Hmm.”  Lance is skeptical.

“Put it this way.  You’re captain now.”

Lance nods.

“As captain, do you think your rival would have made a fair chaser?”

“Bloody hell, no.  Keith wouldn’t know good teamwork if it bit his face right off.”

“Right.  Chasers have to coordinate well together.  They also have to be fair shots.  So, maybe your team needed you in that position.  If you were seeker and Keith played chaser, your team would have been rubbish.  Sometimes the best team can only be made if some members are willing to make sacrifices.”

Before Lance can mull over this idea,  he sneezes loudly.  The sudden intake of near freezing air into his lungs causes a violent shiver to run through him.

The professor notices.  He moves over smoothly and drapes half his riding cloak, along with his right arm, across Lance’s shoulders.  Shiro gives off the impression of being cool and unflappable but his body-heat is like a blazing furnace.

The warmth races through Lance. It electrifies him and he stiffens up.  Then he notices that the older man appears to be in the middle of judging whether or not to withdraw this gesture of comfort.  Lance cuts off that option by murmuring a quick and heartfelt thanks, leaning his head against and nuzzling deeper into Shiro.

After a infinitesimal pause, Professor Shirogane relents.  He pulls his right riding glove off with his teeth, and lays his right hand atop Lance’s head.  He affectionately ruffles the soft brown hair.  He says, softly, “It’s hard.  But you’ve got it in you to be a great seeker and a captain.  Believe in yourself.”

Lance purrs some non-committal noise.  He’s actually completely forgotten about his woes: the only thing that matters is making sure that the hand that’s patting his head never, ever stop.  Quidditch or whatever can happily sod off.  He’s never felt so utterly at peace, and yet so excited that he wants leap up and shout at the top of his lungs.  Perhaps, he thinks, it’s a bit like when he dreams of flying.

They sit like this for thirty minutes.  Shiro notices threatening clouds obscuring the moon and stars.

Lance doesn’t at all, his eyes are shut the entire time.  Rain starts to fall, softly at first.  He does his damned best to ignore it.  When the warm body that he’s resting against moves to extract itself, his face scrunches up and a low growl forms in his throat.

“Five more minutes.”

Shiro laughs.  Beads of water from the sky are starting to collect on the lens of his glasses.  “Lance, wake up.  Sleep in your own bed or you’ll be dying at the game.”

“Worth it,” Lance grumbles.

The taller man stands up, then picks up the other by his armpits and sets the boy on his feet.  Lance grumbles, rubbing at sleepy eyes. Shiro says, “I’m in your corner, knock ‘em dead tomorrow.  Remember, patience yields focus.  Soft eyes over sharp eyes.”

For the first time, in a very long time, the Gryffindor feels at peace.  He feels confident.  It shows on his face.

Shiro grins one last time at Lance.  “Well, take care sneaking back into your dormitory.  Don’t want to lose points for being out after curfew.”  He picks up his broomstick from the grass, and heads back to the castle.

“Professor?”

The professor turns around toward the voice.  Lance grabs a fistful of Shiro’s robes and pulls the surprised man down to eye level.  And pecks him on the lips, with bird-like quickness.  Lance then darts around the gobsmacked target and sprints as fast as he can toward the side door.  The rain is really starting to come down, now.

“Good night!” Lance calls behind him, without looking around.  His face is glowing.  Behind him, he hears the soft thunk of a broomstick hitting the ground.

 

    **************************

 

The weather is abysmal, but that’s never stopped witches and wizards from playing quidditch.

Lance takes the field with his team.  They look nervous, but their captain is supremely confident in them.  Every single one has the talent, and they’ve gone through hell and back preparing for today.  He tells them so, and that seems to do some good at soothing raw nerves.

Their red quidditch robes darken under the drenching rain.  All seven members slip on impervious-charmed goggles over their eyes.

The viewing stands, set two-hundred feet above the pitch, are packed to capacity.  Lance scans them with soft eyes.  He quickly finds his best friend, Hunk, holding one end of a massive sign and shouting himself hoarse.  From down here Lance can’t hear, but he’s sure the cheering is for him.  Next to the bulky Hufflepuff, Lance is surprised to see Pidge.  She’s wearing Slytherin green, scowling, and holding up a much smaller board that reads, “Go Sports.”  She looks like she’d rather be just about anywhere else.  Lance cackles at that.  She's a good kid; after the game he'll have to remember to get her a few sets of sugar quills from Honeydukes.

A few stands over, he spies his new favorite professor.  Their eyes meet, even from this distance.  Lance winks cheekily and points his index finger at Shiro.  He makes a shooting motion.

The man in the stands pulls a sheepish grin and scratches at the bridge of his nose.

At the ready whistle, Gryffindor’s captain throws a leg over his broomstick.  He kicks at the muddy grass and rockets up into the dishwater-grey sky.  The sound of howling wind at his ears drowns out everything else.  He licks his lips and belts out an ecstatic whoop.

Lance wonders why it feels so natural, breathing in the rain.


End file.
